From comrades, friends and brothers
by Vivien99
Summary: There had been a time before the First Minister of France had lived in the palace or before the General du Vallon had lead into battles and before Athos had left Paris. There even had been a time before d'Artagnan had been a musketeer. This story doesn't tell the adventures of les inséparables, but is all about the three muskteers and how comrades became brothers.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm glad you've found this little tale of mine. But eventhough I've written it down, I unfortunately don't own the musketeers.**

 **I won't work on this sotry as I do on the others, as this is supposed to be something different. I will probably update less and in times where I have a writer's block in my main storys. I haven't worked out yet how it sis supposed to go on, so maybe your rreviews can achieve some change in the storyline?  
I'm just as curious as you where this one leads!**

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He shuffled back to his feet, gripping the sword tighter so the knuckles of his freezing fingers turned as white as the snow beneath him. He took a step forwards, careful to not slip again on the wet ground. His lungs burned as the ice cold air rushed into them, his muscles arched with every move and he felt the strain in his arm as he blocked another stroke from his opponent. The man was smaller than him, weaker. Still he had enough strength to cause Porthos to stumble back. The opponent's moves were faster and precisely. He seemed to read the taller man's mind, as nothing Porthos did could suprise his opponent.  
Another few fast blows and Porthos lost the grip around his sword, the weapon flew through the air before it crashed to the ground and in front of another muskteers feet.  
Porthos grumbled as he walked over to get his weapons back, frustrated that he had lost another match against one of the other new recruits. Yesterday, as they had to fight with nothing else but their fists, he felt proud as no one had a chance against him. But today, after hours of training, he still hadn't won one yet.  
"Did you ever held a sword before?" His opponent suddenly asked. Porthos belived his name was Athos or something like that, a highborn son. The dark skinned recruit shook is head, a little bit ashamed.  
In the Court of miracles he had his fists and knifes - and that had always been enough to defend himself. But now he not only had to learn how to ride a horse, but also how to shoot and fight with a sword.  
"That explains a lot." The noble man answered with an unreadable mask and Porthos wondered if he had ever seen the man laugh.

Porthos huffed and turned around as Serge called for dinner. His stomach grumbled in response.  
As he hadn't found any friends yet - a dark skinned man from the Court wasn't the most popular person in the regiment - he sat down on a still empty table.

As he heard the screaking of a chair being pulled back, he looked up to find a young man sit down in front of him. Porthos remembered to have seen him a few times around the garrison, the worn and used pauldron on his shoulder indicated that he wasn't one of the new recruits.  
There only a few comissioned musketeers left, as twenty men were attacked a month ago. That was why so many recruits were new at once and Porthos couldn't help but wonder if the young man in front of him was there at the attack.  
But there was no way he would have asked him this question, as he watched the musketeer shove his food from one side to the other one.  
"Watching won't be enough, you need to eat it too. " Porthos joked in hope to get a response. The young man only looked up for a short moment before he looked back to his food as if it had offended him.  
Just now Porthos noticed how thin the man was, the muscles of a usual musketeer weren't to be found.  
"I'm Porthos byt the way." He then tried and earned another short glance from the dull eyes of the man. "Aramis." He answered quietly and the blood in Porthos veins froze. He only had heard the tales of Savoy, but in each one there was the same Name. The lone survivor. Some said he was a coward, who had hid in the forest. Others said he was a hero. Some told him that Aramis had gone insane after the massacer... There had been so many storys, that Porthos didn't know which one to believe.

"I'm sorry." Was all he was able to get out of his suddenly dry mouth. Aramis huffed and shook his head, before he stood up far too slowly and wearily for a man his age. "They all are." He answered and went, his food was still untouched.

"Let him be. He doesn't want to make friends, so you shouldn't force him." Josef had turned around on the bench right behind Porthos. The tall man decided not to answer, but to himself he thought otherwise. Aramis seemed lonely and lost and maybe he only needed someone to show him the right way. Moreover, this had been one of the longest conversation he had ever had with anyone of the musketeers and Porthos was grateful that he didn't find any sign of hate in Aramis' eyes.

After dinner Porthos decided to go and drink a few glasses of wine, play a little bit of cards and maybe find some woman to share the night with.  
As he walked in the tavern that was closest to the garrison, his eyes fell on a lonely person in the corner. An almost empty bottle and a newly filled glass of wine stood in front of Athos as he stared at the table.  
"Drinking alone isn't that much fun, huh?" Porthos had his hand alread laid on the rest of the chair, ready to pull it back and sit down, as Athos glanced up sceptically. "Maybe I chose to drink alone to stay alone."  
Porthos frowned but then shrugged as he saw a few older men playing cards at the next table. "I will be right there." He said, but Athos had his attention already turned back to his wine.

And so the evening turned into night and Porthos wealth grew with each round of cards.

After a few hours there were no one drunk or stupid enough to play against him. As the tall man looked around the room in search for another opponent he only found a few lost souls left, as most people had already retired to bed.  
Athos sat slumped in the same spot he did as Porthos had arrived, two empty bottles in front of him and a cup in his left hand, while the right one supported his heavy head. Morning muster would start in only a few hours and Porthos started to worry that the other recruit wouldn't make it till then without up.  
So he took the coins that still laid on the table from the last game and strode towards the table in the corner. "Athos?" He asked carefully but got no answer from the drunk man.

"We should get you to your rooms." As Porthos pulled the cup out of the noble man's hand, Athos muttered something before he lifted his head. Half-opened eyes eyed Porthos in suprise, as the tall man laid an arm around Athos' shoulder and pulled him upwards. "You're not sleeping in the Garrison, do you? Haven't seen you there. Where are your lodgings?"

Outside the tavern Athos tried to oriantate himself, but with all the alcohol in his system it was hard enough to stay upright. "No problem. You can sleep in my room." Porthos offered and as the drunk man didn't respond he dragged him towards the garrison.

After what seemed like hours the recruits finally made it to Porthos room, where he lead Athos to the bed. The noble was asleep the moment his back met the soft material beneath it. Porthos laughed to himself and took of the man's shoes and put a blanket over him.  
As the only available bed was already in use, Porthos took a chair and placed his legs on the table. He dozed off moments later.

MMMMMMMM

Porthos stood in the first row, his back straight and his cheat filled with pride as every morning at muster. It remembered how far he had come, that he now was part of the King's personal guards - the best of the best.  
"Athos." Treville's voice echoed through the courtyard and Porthos flinched as he prepared to explain the man's absence. But what could he tell that wouldn't get Athos into trouble? He had tried to wake the hungover man, he really had tried but Athos had just turned around and kept on sleeping.

"Here!" Relief and suprise filled Porthos as he saw the recruit hurrying out of his room. Treville didn't seem fond that Athos was late, but he didn't say anything.

"Aramis." As with Athos before there was no imediate answer but this time Treville didn't seem annoyed or angry, not even suprised and he just went on with muster.  
After orders were given and Athos and Porthos were supposed to train with the muskets, Treville didn't vanish in his office as always but into one of the other rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

It was late in the afternoon, the sun already started to set, as Porthos dreamed of a warm bath and a beautiful woman by his side. The winter this years was long, cold and hard. Porthos couldn't be more thankful than now to be a musketeer's recruit. He had a room for himself with a fireplace and a hot meal once a day. He frowned as he thought about his friends he had left in the Court, how bad they had to freeze, how hard it had to be to get some food. He thought about bringing some bread to them in the evening, but he didn't think that this gesture would have been appreciated.

Why had the king to go for a walk in the royal gardens in winter? Porthos wondered as he tested his frozen fingers, made a fist and opened it again. His muscles arched against the movement despite the leather gloves he wore. Finally, the king decided to head back to the palace. The brim of his heavy cloak was already wet and his cheeks got red, even though his thick clothes were much warmer than the ones of his musketeers. The soldiers didn't hesitate long as they were finally dismissed after a long day and hurried back to the garrison.

"I think I will take a long and hot bath after Serge's stew." Porthos admitted and tried to start a conversation with Athos who walked beside him. The man hadn't talked a word with him till now and didn't intend to change it as he only answered by shrugging his shoulders. He would drink some wine, he thought to himself but didn't think about sharing this idea with the taller recruit.

"You're not a talker, are you?" Porthos huffed. Athos didn't intend to answer this – because no, he wasn't a talker. Moreover he didn't get the chance as shouts from the garrison reached them. The musketeers changed a short look before they hurried into the courtyard too find out what happened. Only a few men had stayed back to work on their swordplay earlier this day, as most were needed at the palace. The once that now returned from duty found a small group of musketeers huddled up in the middle of the courtyard. It looked as if they were restraining someone, but from where he stood, Porthos couldn't see whom. He pushed through the rows to notice that the someone in the middle also wore a musketeers uniform, and soon he cought a glimpse of the face – it was Aramis.

He pushed the ones that came close away and shouted words Porthos couldn't understand, it wasn't French. "What happened?" He asked another musketeer that watched the small fight, as two older, commissioned musketeers tried to restrain Aramis once again. "He's going insane." Answered the man and hissed in sympathy as Aramis caught another man in the face with his fist. The nose that was hit bled hard and fast.

The flow of strange words didn't stop from the confused mans mouth as he tried to get out of a tight grip around his left arm. "Let me." Porthos muttered as another man was hit and made a step forward. He now was behind Aramis, the angry man didn't notice him as he was distracted by other musketeers in front of him. One fast move was enough for Porthos to catch Aramis' hands and turn them one the mans back, making him flinch as he pulled slightly at them. Porthos didn't want to hurt the man, but still he had to somehow stop him. Aramis struggled against his grip, but Porthos didn't let got.

As he started to wonder what he now was supposed to do with the angry and confused man, Treville hurried down the stairs. "What is the meaning of this?" He wanted to know. "He's insane! Almost stabbed Pierre while they worked on his swordplay!" Josef pointed at a discarded sword a few feet away and Pierre, who held his hand protectively over a gash on his arm. "I'm fine." Pierre reassured before Treville had to ask, it wasn't a deep cut.

As Treville knew there was no immediate danger for his recruits he finally turned to Aramis and Porthos and took in the sight for a moment before sighing.

He suddenly turned back around and faced the mob of musketeers. "Dismissed! All of you!" Mumbling and whispering interrupted as the men parted and went to their room or the kitchen, leaving the three man behind in the courtyard.

Aramis had calmed down a bit by now, but if looks could kill, a couple of men would already be dead by his icy eyes. "Aramis, do you know where you are?" Treville asked gently, but didn't allow Porthos to let go. The Musketeer only tried to get out of the tight grip once again and hissed an answer in the strange language. Treville seemed to search for the right words, searched in the dark eyes for clarity that wasn't there. "Estás seguro." (You're safe) He said, voice calm.

"Is this spanish, Sir?" Porthos asked carefully and earned a short nod from his captain, who didn't turn his attention from the struggling musketeer. "You're in the garrison, Aramis. Estás seguro."

The foreign language seemed to change something in Aramis and he stopped struggling. Porthos let go of the arms gently as the Musketeer looked around in confusion. "What happened?" He then asked and searched for an answer in Treville's face. "You should rest, Aramis. Porthos, would you get him to his room?" Porthos nod and gently nudged Aramis towards his room, walking a good step behind the commissioned musketeer. "What happened?" Aramis asked once again as they were in his room, he couldn't shrug of the feeling that something bad had happened.

Porthos scratched his neck unsure what to say – he himself didn't quite know what had happened.

"There was an… accident. It seems that you have cut Pierre slightly, but I wasn't there I don't know for sure. As we came… the others tried to restrain you, you spoke Spanish and…" 

"And what?" Aramis demanded, horrified by what the recruit was telling him. "You punched a few of us, injured them. You were not yourself."

Aramis gulped and sat down on his bed as his legs started to tremble. "How's Pierre?" He looked up at Porthos. There was nothing left of the fury, only pain, sorrow and guilt. "He's fine, it wasn't that bad." Aramis nod, but he didn't seem to believe him completely.

"May I ask… what happened there to you?" Porthos asked carefully as he placed wood in the fireplace.

Aramis fumbled with his fingers, licking his lips before going through his hair with his hands nervously. "I don't know. I – suddenly I was back _there_." Savoy, Porthos guessed and didn't dare to ask further questions.

He stood in front of the fireplace, glancing down on Aramis unsure of what to do now. "I want to sleep now, I guess. Would you mind and close the door when you leave?" The musketeer didn't give him time to answer as he laid down and turned his back towards Porthos, who sighed and left the room and closed the door.

He heard whispered voices as he walked towards the staircase and stopped in his tracks to listen. He didn't want to, but something in him made him feel that this could be interesting.

They stood around the corner, two men obviously. As he strained his ears to listen he noticed they weren't whispering to gossip but more likely hissing, spitting words in fury. "You should be careful what you're saying about others, Josef." Porthos heard a thud, as if someone was pushed against a wall.

"Do you think you can give me commands? You may once was a noble but you're nothing now. Just a pitiable drunkard." 

"Call me what you want, I don't need your admiration. Just shut your stupid mouth and stop spreading this rumors and leave this poor man alone." Another thud, then footsteps. Porthos hurried to get a way from the corner and walked down the stairs as casual as possible as if he hadn't heard anything. From the corner of his eye he saw Athos turn around the corner.


	3. Chapter 3

The soldiers sat in the mess, laughing and talking. The smell of Serge's stew filled the air, while rain banged again the windows. There was a fire lit in the corner, where some of the commissioned musketeers sat and warmed their cold limbs after a hard day of work. They were all soaked through to the bones from guard duty, but the few chairs around the fireplace were reserved for the long-established men.

Porthos observed Josef as he strode towards the small group, his freshly filled bowl of stew steamed in between his fingers. He said something, pointed at the only unused chair. The men thought for a moment about what he said before they nodded and Josef sat down by the fire too.

It was obvious that the musketeer, for whom the chair was actually placed by the fire, wouldn't come and if he did he would not sit with them anyway. Still, out of respect, the commissioned musketeers always have had a place for Aramis between them. Until today.

Porthos hadn't missed the rumours that went around, and that also the longer-serving men spread them. That Aramis was a coward, a traitor. And even these men, who had always reserved a chair for him, had started some of these stories. He wondered if Aramis' outburst from the previous day caused the musketeers to let Josef on the chair.

It was all the more surprising that Aramis actually entered the mess. He seemed to be deep in his thoughts as he looked for a place to sit. Porthos knew that the Musketeer wouldn't want to sit with the others, as he liked to stay for himself, but still there was a look of dismay as he saw his chair being taken by Josef. Porthos watched the marksman searching for a empty table, but there was none. The mess wasn't big and with almost the whole regiment gathered there, it was hard to even find a place to sit.

It was only on his table where a few places were still free, besides Porthos and the three stable boys, no one sat there. So Aramis had not much choice to either leave the mess again or sit with them. He didn't seem to like the idea, but still he took the chair across from Porthos.

Porthos watched the marksman for a few moments, as he didn't pay him any attention or made a move to get some food.

"The stew is really good." Porthos tried cheerfully, but Aramis only shrugged.

"Shall I get you a bowl?" Nothing. Obviously Aramis found his hands more interesting.

Porthos sighed and returned his attention back to his food.

But not for long as the last sparse chair was taken and Athos sat down beside him, placing two bowls of stew on the table. Wordless, Athos pushed one over to Aramis before he started to eat his own. Porthos watched the silent exchange with curiosity. Aramis still didn't pay them any attention, his glance only hushed to the bowl and back to his fingers.

"Eat." Athos then said, shooting the marksman an icy stare. The sound of command seemed to reach Aramis' ears, as he raised his eyes to look at the man the voice belonged too.

But that was it. He returned his attention back to his hands, which scratched at the top of the table.

"Eat." Athos repeated his order now more forcefully. "The Captain ordered me to see that you eat. So just do it."

Aramis frowned as he eyed the recruit. He seemed to be a little bit older than him, with the unkempt hair and scar on his upper lip – but Aramis doubted that the scar was from a fight. He had seen the man fighting in the courtyard with a sword a few times, and even though his technique was admirable, he was no soldier. His hands were still too soft for one.

"You're in no place to give me orders, _recruit_." Aramis hissed the word as if it were an insult, but Athos didn't seem touched by it. "But the Captain is. He said you have to eat before you're allowed to leave the mess."

"I'm not taking orders by someone like you. You should watch your mouth." Aramis stood up, ready to leave as Athos raised his brows in interest. "Someone like me?"

Porthos saw the fire lightening in Aramis' eyes and in this moment he knew that the words following would be everything but nice. He was glad it wasn't him the fury of the marksman was directed to, as he leaned over the table, so close to Athos that their noses almost touched.

"A lowly recruit, who only got his place in the regiment because he's from a noble family. You're not even carrying a pauldron, so you have no right to address me like you did. I'm still wondering how a drunkard like you was allowed here, anyway."

Porthos noticed how Athos' fingers twitched, ready to start a fight, as he stared down Aramis. The air seemed to have thickened as the room turned silent. Aramis was just as ready to start a fight as Athos, both still staring at each other. Porthos had enough.

He placed his hands on their chest, separating them from each other before anything could happen. Aramis straightened his back again, while Athos leaned back in his chair. "Enough."


End file.
